POEMS. 


REESE    LIBRARY 

>l    i  H  *: 

UNIVERSITY   OF   CALIFORNIA. 

Recehvd. \s$> eus         mtU/. 

^  -J^ 


Accessions  No.^oOyO  Shelf  No. 


SKETCHES: 


BY  N.  P.  WILLIS. 


-If  I  remember, 


You  loved  such  stories  once,  thinking  they  brought 
Man  to  a  fine  and  true  humanity.' 

BARRY  CORNWALL. 


BOSTON: 

S.  G.  GOODRICH,   141,  WASHINGTON  ST. 


MDCCCXXVII. 


DISTRICT  OF  MASSACHUSETTS,  to  Wit: 

District  Clerk's  Office. 

BE  IT  REMEMBERED,  that  on  the  thirtieth  day  of  November,  A.  D. 
1827,  in  the  fiftysecond  year  of  the  Independence  of  the  UNITED  STATES  OF 
AMERICA,  JY.  P.  Willis,  of  the  said  district,  has  deposited  in  this  office 
the  title  of  a  book,  the  right  whereof  he  claims  as  author,  in  the  words  follow 
ing,  to  wit:  '  SKETCHES.  By  N.  P.  Willis. 

" If  I  remember, 

You  loved  such  stories  once,  thinking  they  brought 
Man  to  a  fine  and  true  humanity." 

BARRY  CORNWALL.' 

In  conformity  to  the  act  of  the  Congress  of  the  United  States,  entitled, 
'  An  act  for  the  encouragement  of  learning,  by  securing  the  copies  of  maps, 
charts,  and  books,  to  the  authors  and  proprietors  of  such  copies,  during  the 
times  therein  mentioned ; '  and  also  to  an  act  entitled  '  An  act  supplementary 
to  an  act,  entitled,  an  act  for  the  encouragement  of  learning,  by  securing  the 
copies  of  maps,  charts,  and  books  to  the  authors  and  proprietors  of  such  copies 
during  the  times  therein  mentioned  ;  and  extending  the  benefits  thereof  to  the 
arts  of  designing,  engraving  and  etching  historical  and  other  prints.' 

JNO.  W.  DAVIS, 
d 


BOSTON  :    PRESS  OF  THE  CHRISTIAN  EXAMINER. 


Stephen  Foster,  Printer. 


TO 

MY    FATHER 

THIS    VOLUME 

is 
RESPECTFULLY    AND    AFFECTIONATELY 

DEDICATED. 


PREFACE. 

IN  introducing  this  volume  to  the  Public,  the  Author  would  simply 
remark,  that  it  was  written  at  different  periods  of  a  college  life,  which 
has  just  expired;  (the  Scripture  Sketches  at  a  very  early  part  of  it.) 
He  has  no  intention  of  screening  its  faults,  either  of  feeling  or  style, 
beneath  his  'score  of  summers;'  but  as  prefaces  are  the  fashion,  he 
has  thought  the  mention  of  the  fact  would  not  be  amiss  in  the  promo 
tion  of  a  proper  understanding  between  himself  and  his  readers. 


CONTENTS. 


SKETCHES. 

THE  SACRIFICE  OF  ABRAHAM 9 

ABSALOM   .......  14 

HAGAR  IN  THE   WILDERNESS          ....  20 

JEPHTHAH'S  DAUGHTER 26 

IDLENESS    ........  33 

DREAMS      ••......  34 

OCTOBER    .......  gg 

BOYHOOD 4j 

NIGHT  SKETCHES 44 

TWILIGHT 49 

DAWN 51 

SCRAPS  FROM  A  JOURNAL         ......  53 

BETTER  MOMENTS    .......  61 

THE  HINDOO  MOTHER 55 

WAITING  FOR  THE  HARVESTERS 75 

FUGITIVE  PIECES. 

THE  SOLDIER'S  WIDOW  ....  79 

THE  BURIAL  OF  ARNOLD 81 

To  LAURA  W 84 

SONNETS 87,  88,  89 

EXTRACT  FROM  A  POEM  DELIVERED  AT  THE  DEPARTURE 

OF  THE  SENIOR  CLASS  OF  YALE  COLLEGE  IN  1826  90 

NOTES        '......  95 


SKETCHES. 


THE   SACRIFICE  OF   ABRAHAM. 

MORN  breaketh  in  the  east.      The  purple  clouds 
Are  putting  on  their  gold  and  violet, 
To  look  the  meeter  for  the  sun's  bright  coming. 
Sleep  is  upon  the  waters  and  the  wind; 
And  nature,  from  the  tremulous  forest  leaf 
To  her  majestic  master,  sleeps.     As  yet 
There  is  no  mist  upon  the  deep  blue  sky, 
And  the  clear  dew  is  on  the  blushing  bosoms 
Of  crimson  roses,  in  a  holy  rest. 
How  hallowed  is  the  hour  of  morning !    meet, 
Aye,  beautifully  meet,  for  the  pure  prayer. 

The  patriarch  standeth  at  his  tented  door, 
With  his  white  locks  uncovered.     'Tis  his  wont 


10  SKETCHES. 

To  gaze  upon  the  gorgeous  orient; 

And  at  that  hour  the  awful  majesty 

Of  one  who  talketh  often  with  his  God, 

Is  wont  to  come  again  and  clothe  his  brow 

As  at  his  fourscore  strength.     But  now  he  seemeth 

To  be  forgetful  of  his  vigorous  frame, 

And  boweth  to  his  staff  as  at  the  hour 

Of  noontide  sultriness ;    and  that  bright  sun ! 

He  looketh  at  its  pencilled  messengers, 

Coming  in  golden  raiment,  as  if  light 

Were  opening  a  fearful  scroll  in  heaven. 

Ah !    he  is  waiting  till  it  herald  in 

The  hour  to  sacrifice  his  much  loved  son ! 

Light  poureth  on  the  world.     And  Sarah  stands, 
Watching  the  steps  of  Abraham  and  her  child 
Along  the  dewy  sides  of  the  far  hills, 
And  praying  that  her  sunny  boy  faint  not. 
Would  she  have  watched  their  path  so  silently, 
If  she  had  known  that  he  was  going  up, 
Even  in  his  fair-haired  beauty,  to  be  slain 
As  a  white  lamb  for  sacrifice?      They  trod 
Together  onward,  patriarch  and  child; 
The  bright  sun  throwing  back  the  old  man's  shade, 
In  straight  and  fair  proportions,  as  of  our 


SKETCHES.  11 

Erect  in  early  vigor.      He  stood  up 

Firm  in  his  better  strength,  and  like  a  tree 

Rooted  in  Lebanon,  his  frame  bent  not. 

His  thin,  white  hairs,  had  yielded  to  the  wind, 

And  left  his  brow  uncovered;   and  his  face, 

Impressed  with  the  stern  majesty  of  grief, 

Nerved  to  a  solemn  duty,  now  stood  forth 

Like  a  rent  rock,  submissive,  yet  sublime. 

But  the  young  boy,  he  of  the  laughing  eye 

And  ruby  lip,  the  pride  of  life  was  on  him. 

He  seemed  to  drink  the  morning.      Sun  and  dew, 

And  the  aroma  of  the  spicy  trees, 

And  all  that  giveth  the  delicious  East 

Its  fitness  for  an  Eden,  stole  like  light 

Into  his  spirit,  ravishing  his  thoughts 

With  love  and  beauty.     Every  thing  he  met, 

Floating  or  beautiful,  the  lightest  wing 

Of  bird  or  insect,  or  the  palest  dye 

Of  the  fresh  flowers,  won  him  from  his  path; 

And  joyously  broke  forth  his  tiny  shout, 

As  he  flung  back  his  silken  hair,  and  sprung 

Away  to  some  green  spot  or  clustering  vine, 

To  pluck  his  infant  trophies.      Every  tree 

And  fragrant  shrub  was  a  new  hiding-place, 

And  he  would  crouch  till  the  old  man  came  by, 


12  SKETCHES. 

Then  bound  before  him  with  his  childish  laugh, 
Stealing  a  look  behind  him  playfully, 
To  see  if  he  had  made  his  father  smile. 

The  sun  rode  on  in  heaven.      The  dew  stole  up 
Like  a  light  veil  from  nature,  and  the  heat 
Came  like  a  sleep  upon  the  delicate  leaves, 
And  bent  them  with  the  blossoms  to  their  dreams. 
Still  trod  the  patriarch  on  with  that  same  step, 
Firm  and  unfaltering,  turning  not  aside 
To  seek  the  olive  shades,  or  lave  his  lips 
In  the  sweet  waters  of  the  Syrian  wells, 
Whose  gush  hath  so  much  music.      Weariness 
Stole  on  the  gentle  boy,  and  he  forgot 
To  toss  his  sunny  hair  from  off  his  brow, 
And  spring  for  the  light  wings  and  gaudy  flowers, 
As  in  the  early  morning;    but  he  kept 
Close  by  his  father's  side,  and  bent  his  head 
Upon  his  bosom  like  a  drooping  bud, 
Lifting  it  not,  save  now  and  then  to  steal 
A  look  up  to  the  face  whose  sternness  awed 
His  childishness  to  silence. 

It  was  noon ; 
And  Abraham  on  Moriah  bowed  himself, 


oKrjTCH.t-0.  ^x  —  .yv     r   •» «*->• 

And  buried  up  his  face,  and  prayed  for  strength. 

He  could  not  look  upon  his  son  and  pray; 

But  with  his  hand  upon  the  clustering  curls 

Of  the  fair,  kneeling  boy,  he  prayed  that  God 

Would  nerve  him  for  that  hour.      Oh !   man  was  made 

For  the  stern  conflict.      In  a  mother's  love 

There  is  more  tenderness;   the  thousand  cords 

Woven  with  every  fibre  of  her  heart, 

Complain,  like  delicate  harp  strings,  at  a  breath; 

But  love  in  man  is  one  deep  principle, 

Which,  yielding  not  to  lighter  influence, 

Abides  the  tempest.      He  rose  up,  and  laid 

The  wood  upon  the  altar.      All  was  done. 

He  stood  a  moment,  and  a  vivid  flush 

Passed  o'er  his  countenance;    and  then  he  nerved 

His  spirit  with  a  bitter  strength,  and  spoke : 

'  Isaac !    my  only  son ! '      The  boy  looked  up, 

And  Abraham  turned  his  face  away,  and  wept. 

'  Where  is  the  lamb,  my  father  ? '      Oh !   the  tones, 

The  sweet,  the  thrilling  music  of  a  child ! 

How  it  doth  agonize  at  such  an  hour ! 

It  was  the  last,  deep  struggle.      Abraham  held 

His  loved,  his  beautiful,  his  only  son, 

And  lifted  up  his  arm,  and  called  on  God — 

And  lo!    God's  Angel  stayed  him;    and  he  fell 

Upon  his  face  and  wept. 


14  SKETCHES. 


ABSALOM. 

THE  waters  slept.      Night's  silvery  veil  hung  low 
On  Jordan's  bosom,  and  the  eddies  curled 
Their  glassy  rings  beneath  it,  like  the  still 
Unbroken  beating  of  the  sleeper's  pulse. 
The  reeds  bent  down  the  stream.      The  willow  leaves, 
With  a  soft  cheek  upon  the  lulling  tide, 
Forgot  the  lifting  winds  ;  and  the  long  stems, 
Whose  flowers  the  water,  like  a  gentle  nurse, 
Bears  on  its  bosom,  quietly  gave  way 
And  leaned  in  graceful  attitudes  to  rest. 
How  strikingly  the  course  of  nature  tells, 
By  its  light  heed  of  human  suffering, 
That  it  was  fashioned  for  a  perfect  world! 

King  David's  limbs  were  weary.      He  had  fled 
From  far  Jerusalem,  and  now  he  stood 
With  his  faint  people  for  a  little  rest 
Upon  the  shore  of  Jordan.      The  light  wind 


SKETCHES.  15 

Of  morn  was  stirring,  and  he  bared  his  brow 

To  its  refreshing  breath;    for  he  had  worn 

The  mourner's  covering,  and  he  had  not  felt 

That  he  could  see  his  people  until  now. 

They  gathered  round  him  on  the  fresh  green  bank, 

And  spoke  their  kindly  words;   and  as  the  sun 

Rose  up  in  heaven,  he  knelt  among  them  there, 

And  bowed  his  head  upon  his  hands  to  pray. 

Oh !   when  the  heart  is  full,  when  bitter  thoughts 

Come  crowding  thickly  up  for  utterance, 

And  the  poor  common  words  of  courtesy 

Are  such  a  very  mockery,  how  much 

The  bursting  heart  may  pour  itself  in  prayer  ! 

He  prayed  for  Israel;   and  his  voice  went  up 

Strongly  and  fervently;    he  prayed  for  those 

Whose  love  had  been  his  shield;    and  his  deep  tones 

Grew  tremulous ;   but  oh !    for  Absalom  ! 

For  his  estranged,  misguided  Absalom — 

The  proud,  bright  being  who  had  burst  away, 

In  all  his  princely  beauty,  to  defy 

The  heart  that  cherished  him — for  him  he  poured, 

In  agony  that  would  not  be  controlled, 

Strong  supplication,  and  forgave  him  there 

Before  his  God,  for  his  deep  sinfulness. 


SKETCHES. 

The  hosts  were  numbered.      At  Mahanaim's  gate 
Sat  David,  as  the  glittering  thousands  passed 
Forth  to  the  battle.       With  a  troubled  eye 
He  looked  upon  their  pomp,  and  as  the  helms 
Bent  low  before  him,  and  the  banners  swayed 
Like  burnished  wings  to  do  him  reverence, 
His  look  grew  restless,  and  he  did  not  wear 
The  lofty  sternness  of  a  monarch's  brow. 
The  leader  of  the  host  came  by.      His  form 
Was  like  a  son  of  Anak,  and  he  strode 
Majestically  on,  and  bore  his  crest 
As  men  were  waters,  and  his  frame  a  rock. 
The  king  rose  up  to  Joab,  and  came  near, 
As  his  tall  helm  was  bowed;  and  by  the  love 
He  bore  his  master,  he  besought  him  there 
That  he  would  spare  him  Absalom  alive. 
He  passed  with  his  stern  warriors  on;   the  trump 
And  the  loud  cymbal  died  upon  the  ear; 
And  as  the  king  turned  off  his  weary  gaze, 
The  last  faint  gleam  had  vanished,  and  the  wood 
Of  Ephraim  had  received  a  thousand  men, 
To  whom  its  pleasant  shadows  were  a  grave. 

The  pall  was  settled.      He  who  slept  beneath 
Was  straightened  for  the  grave;   and  as  the  folds 


SKETCHES.  17 

Sunk  to  the  still  proportions,  they  betrayed 
The  matchless  symmetry  of  Absalom. 
His  hair  was  yet  unshorn,  and  silken  curls 
Were  floating  round  the  tassels  as  they  swayed 
To  the  admitted  air,  as  glossy  now 
As  when  in  hours  of  gentle  dalliance  bathing 
The  snowy  fingers  of  Judea's  girls. 
His  helm  was  at  his  feet;    his  banner,  soiled 
With  trailing  through  Jerusalem,  was  laid 
Reversed  beside  him ;    and  the  jewelled  hilt, 
Whose  diamonds  lit  the  passage  of  his  blade, 
Rested  like  mockery  on  his  covered  brow. 
The  soldiers  of  the  king  trod  to  and  fro, 
Clad  in  the  garb  of  battle,  and  their  chief, 
The  mighty  Joab,  stood  beside  his  bier 
And  gazed  upon  the  dark  pall  stedfastly, 
As  if  he  feared  the  slumberer  might  stir. 
A  slow  step  startled  him.      He  grasped  his  blade 
As  if  a  trumpet  rang ;    but  the  bent  form 
Of  David  entered,  and  he  gave  command 
In  a  low  tone  to  his  few  followers, 
And  left  him  with  his  dead.      The  king  stood   still 
Till  the  last  echo  died ;   then  throwing  off 
The  sackcloth  from  his  brow,  and  laying  back 
The  pall  from  the  still  features  of  his  child, 
3 


18  SKETCHES. 

He  bowed  his  head  upon  him,  and  broke  forth 
In  the  resistless  eloquence  of  woe. 

'  Alas !    my  noble  boy,  that  thou  shouldst  die ! 

Thou,  who  wert  made  so  beautifully  fair! 
That  death  should  settle  in  thy  glorious  eye, 

And  leave  his  stillness  in  this  clustering   hair! 
How  could  he  mark  thee  for  the  silent  tomb, 
My  proud  boy,  Absalom! 

*  Cold  is  thy  brow,  my  son !    and  I  am  chill 
When  to  my  bosom  I  would  try  to  press  thee ; 

How  was  I  wont  to  feel  my  pulses  thrill, 

Like  a  rich  harp  string,  yearning  to  caress  thee, 

And  hear  thy  sweet  "  My  Father ! "  from  these  dumb 
And  cold  lips,  Absalom ! 

<  The  grave  hath  won  thee ;  I  shall  hear  the  gush 
Of  music  and  the  voices  of  the  young ; 

And  life  will  pass  me  in  the  mantling  blush, 
And  the  dark  tresses  to  the  soft  winds  flung; 

But  thou  no  more  with  thy  sweet  voice  shalt  come 
To  meet  me,  Absalom ! 

'  And  oh !    when  I  am  stricken,  and  my  heart 
Like  a  bruised  reed  is  waiting  to  be  broken  : 


SKETCHES.  19 

How  will  its  love  for  thee,  as  I  depart, 

Long  for  thine  ear  to  catch  its  dying  token ! 
It  were  so  sweet,  amid  death's  gathering  gloom, 
To  see  thee,  Absalom ! 

'  And  now  farewell !   't  is  hard  to  give  thee  up, 

With  death  so  like  a  gentle  slumber  on  thee. 
And  thy  dark  sin — oh  !  I  could  drink  the  cup, 

If  from  this  woe  its  bitterness  had  won  thee — 
May  God  have  called  thee  like  a  wanderer  home, 
My  erring  Absalom!' 

He  covered  up  his  face,  and  bowed  himself 
A  moment  on  his  child;   then  giving  him 
A  look  of  melting  tenderness,  he  clasped 
His  hands  convulsively,  as  if  in  prayer ; 
And  as  a  strength  were  given  him  of  God, 
He  rose  up  calmly,  and  composed  the  pall 
About  him  decently,  and  left  him  there 
As  if  his  rest  had  been  a  breathing  sleep. 


"20  SKETCHES. 


HAGAR   IN   THE   WILDERNESS. 

THE  morning  broke.      Light  stole  upon  the  clouds 
With  a  strange  beauty.      Earth  received  again 
Its  garment  of  a  thousand  dies;    and  leaves, 
And  delicate  blossoms,  and  the  painted  flowers, 
And  every  thing  that  bendeth  to  the  dew, 
And  stirreth  with  the  daylight,  lifted  up 
Its  beauty  to  the  breath  of  that  sweet  morn. 

All  things  are  dark  to  sorrow  ;    and  the  light 
And  loveliness,  and  fragrant  air  were  sad 
To  the  dejected  Hagar.      The  moist  earth 
Was  pouring  odors  from  its  spicy  pores, 
And  the  young  birds  were  caroling  as  life 
Were  a  new  thing  to  them ;    but  oh !    it  came 
Upon  her  heart  like  discord,  and  she  felt 
How  cruelly  it  tries  a  broken  heart, 
To  see  a  mirth  in  any  thing  it  loves. 
She  stood  at  Abraham's  tent.      Her  lips  were  pressed 


SKETCHES.  21 

Till  the  blood  left  them;   and  the  wandering  veins 
Of  her  transparent  forehead,  were  swelled  out, 
As  if  her  pride  would  burst  them.      Her  dark  eye 
Was  clear  and  tearless,  and  the  light  of  heaven, 
Which  made  its  language  legible,  shot  back 
From  her  long  lashes,  as  it  had  been  flame. 
Her  noble  boy  stood  by  her  with  his  hand 
Clasped  in  her  own,  and  his  round,  delicate  feet, 
Scarce  trained  to  balance  on  the  tented  floor, 
Sandaled  for  journeying.      He  had  looked  up 
Into  his  mother's  face  until  he  caught 
The  spirit  there,  and  his  young  heart  was  swelling 
Beneath  his  snowy  bosom,  and  his  form 
Straightened  up  proudly  in  his  tiny  wrath, 
As  if  his  light  proportions  would  have  swelled, 
Had  they  but  matched  his  spirit,  to  the  man. 

Why  bends  the  patriarch  as  he  cometh  now 
Upon  his  staff  so  wearily?      His  beard 
Is  low  upon  his  breast,  and  his  high  brow, 
So  written  with  the  converse  of  his  God, 
Beareth  the  swollen  vein  of  agony. 
His  lip  is  quivering,  and  his  wonted  step 
Of  vigor  is  not  there,  and  though  the  morn 
Is  passing  fair  and  beautiful,  he  breathes 


SKETCHES. 

Its  freshness  as  it  were  a  pestilence. 
Oh!    man  may  bear  with  suffering;    his  heart 
Is  a  strong  thing,  and  godlike  in  the  grasp 
Of  pain  that  wrings  mortality ;    but  tear 
One  cord  affection  clings  to,  part  one  tie 
That  binds  him  to  a  woman's  delicate  love, 
And  his  great  spirit  yieldeth  like  a  reed. 

He  gave  to  her  the  water  and  the  bread, 
But  spoke  no  word,  and  trusted  not  himself 
To  look  upon  her  face,  but  laid  his  hand 
In  silent  blessing  on  the  fair-haired  boy, 
And  left  her  to  her  lot  of  loneliness. 

Should  Hagar  weep?      May  slighted  woman  turn, 
And  as  a  vine  the  oak  hath  shaken  off, 
Bend  lightly  to  her  tendencies  again? 
Oh  no!    by  all  her  loveliness,  by  all 
That  makes  life  poetry  and  beauty,  no! 
Make  her  a  slave;    steal  from  her  rosy  cheek 
By  needless  jealousies;    let  the  last  star 
Leave  her  a  watcher  by  your  couch  of  pain ; 
Wrong  her  by  petulance,  suspicion,  all 
That  makes  her  cup  a  bitterness — yet  give 
One  evidence  of  love,  and  earth  has  not 


SKETCHES.  23 

An  emblem  of  devotedness  like  hers. 
But  oh!   estrange  her  once,  it  boots  not  how, 
By  wrong  or  silence,  any  thing  that  tells 
A  change  has  come  upon  your  tenderness — 
And  there  is  not  a  high  thing  out  of  heaven 
Her  pride  o'ermastereth  not. 

She  went  her  way  with  a  strong  step  and  slow; 
Her  pressed  lip  arched,  and  her  clear  eye  undimmed, 
As  it  had  been  a  diamond,  and  her  form 
Borne  proudly  up,  as  if  her  heart  breathed  through. 
Her  child  kept  on  in  silence,  though  she  pressed 
His  hand  till  it  was  pained;    for  he  had  caught, 
As  I  have  said,  her  spirit,  and  the  seed 
Of  a  stern  nation  had  been  breathed  upon. 

The  morning  past,  and  Asia's  sun  rode  up 
In  the  clear  heaven,  and  every  beam  was  heat. 
The  cattle  of  the  hills  were  in  the  shade, 
And  the  bright  plumage  of  the  Orient  lay 
On  beating  bosoms  in  her  spicy  trees. 
It  was  an  hour  of  rest;    but  Hagar  found 
No  shelter  in  the  wilderness,  and  on 
She  kept  her  weary  way,  until  the  boy 
Hung  down  his  head,  and  opened  his  parched  lips 


24  SKETCHES. 

For  water;    but  she  could  not  give  it  him. 

She  laid  him  down  beneath  the  sultry  sky; 

For  it  was  better  than  the  close,  hot  breath 

Of  the  thick  pines,  and  tried  to  comfort  him ; 

But  he  was  sore  athirst,  and  his  blue  eyes 

Were  dim  and  bloodshot,  and  he  could  not  know 

Why  God  denied  him  water  in  the  wild. 

She  sat  a  little  longer,  and  he  grew 

Ghastly  and  faint,  as  if  he  would  have  died. 

It  was  too  much  for  her.      She  lifted  him 

And  bore  him  farther  on,  and  laid  his  head 

Beneath  the  shadow  of  a  desert  shrub; 

And  shrouding  up  her  face  she  went  away, 

And  sat  to  watch,  where  he  could  see  her  not, 

Till  he  should  die — and  watching  him  she  mourned  :• 

'  God  stay  thee  in  thine  agony,  my  boy ! 
I  cannot  see  thee  die ;    I  cannot  brook 

Upon  thy  brow  to  look, 
And  see  death  settle  on  my  cradle  joy. 
How  have  I  drunk  the  light  of  thy  blue  eye ! 

And  could  I  see  thee  die? 

*  I  did  not  dream  of  this  when  thou  wast  straying, 
Like  an  unbound  gazelle,  among  the  flowers; 


SKETCHES.  25 

Or  wearing  rosy  hours, 
By  the  rich  gush  of  water-sources  playing, 
Then  sinking  weary  to  thy  smiling  sleep, 

So  beautiful  and  deep. 

'Oh  no !    and  when  I  watched  by  thee  the  while, 
And  saw  thy  bright  lip  curling  in  thy  dream, 

And  thought  of  the  dark  stream 
In  my  own  land  of  Egypt,  the  deep  Nile, 
How  prayed  I  that  my  fathers'  land  might  be 

An  heritage  for  thee ! 

'And  now  the  grave  for  its  cold  breast  hath  won  thee, 
And  thy  white,  delicate  limbs  the  earth  will  press; 

And  oh !    my  last  caress 

Must  feel  thee  cold,  for  a  chill  hand  is  on  thee. 
How  can  I  leave  my  boy,  so  pillowed  there 

Upon  his  clustering  hair!' 

She  stood  beside  the  well  her  God  had  given 
To  gush  in  that  deep  wilderness,  and  bathed 
The  forehead  of  her  child  until  he  laughed 
In  his  reviving  happiness,  and  lisped 
His  infant  thought  of  gladness  at  the  sight 
Of  the  cool  plashing  of  his  mother's  hand. 
4 


26  SKETCHES. 


JEPHTHAH'S   DAUGHTER. 


SHE  stood  before  her  father's  gorgeous  tent, 
To  listen  for  his  coming.      Her  loose  hair 
Was  resting  on  her  shoulders,  like  a  cloud 
Floating  around  a  statue,  and  the  wind, 
Just  swaying  her  light  robe,  revealed  a  shape 
Praxiteles  might  worship.      She  had  clasped 
Her  hands  upon  her  bosom,  and  had  raised 
Her  beautiful,  dark,  Jewish  eyes  to  heaven, 
Till  the  long  lashes  laid  upon  her  brow. 
Her  lip  was  slightly  parted,  like  the  leaves 
Of  a  half-blown  pomegranate ;    and  her  neck, 
Just  where  the  cheek  was  melting  to  its  curve, 
With  the  unearthly  beauty  sometimes  there, 
Was  shaded  as  if  light  had  fallen  off, 
Its  surface  was  so  polished.      She  was  quelling 
Her  light,  quick  breath,  to  hear;    and  the  white  rose 
Scarce  moved  upon  her  bosom  as  it  swelled, 
Like  nothing  but  a  wave  of  light  in  dreams, 


SKETCHES.  27 


To  meet  the  arching  of  her  queenly  neck. 
Her  countenance  was  radiant  with  love. 
She  looked  like  one  to  die  for  it ;    a  being 
Whose  whole  existence  was  the  pouring  out 
Of  rich  and  deep  affections.      I  have  thought 
A  brother's  and  a  sister's  love  was  much. 
I  know  a  brother's  is,  for  I  have  loved 
A  trusting  sister ;    and  I  know  how  broke 
The  heart  may  be  with  its  own  tenderness. 
But  the  affection  of  a  delicate  child 
For  a  fond  father,  gushing  as  it  does 
With  the  sweet  springs  of  life,  and  living  on 
Through  all  earth's  changes  like  a  principle, 
Chastened  with  reverence,  and  made  more  pure 
By  early  discipline  of  light  and  shade, — 
It  must  be  holier ! 

The  wind  bore  on 

The  leaden  tramp  of  thousands.      Clarion  notes 
Rang  sharply  on  the  ear  at  intervals; 
And  the  low,  mingled  din  of  mighty  hosts 
Returning  from  the  battle,  poured  from  far, 
Like  the  deep  murmur  of  a  restless  sea. 
They  came,  as  earthly  conquerors  always  come, 
With  blood  and  splendor,  revelry  and  woe. 


SKETCHES. 

The  stately  horse  treads  proudly ;    he  hath  trod 

The  brow  of  death,  as  well.      The  chariot  wheels 

Of  warriors  roll  magnificently  on ; 

Their  weight  hath  crushed  the  fallen.     Man  is  there  ; 

Majestic,  lordly  man,  with  his  serene 

And  elevated  brow  and  godlike  frame, 

Lifting  his  crest  in  triumph,  for  his  heel 

Hath  trod  the  dying  like  a  wine-press  down ! 

The  mighty  Jephthah  led  his  warriors  on 
Through  Mizpeh's  streets.     His  helm  was  proudly  set, 
And  his  stern  lip  curled  slightly,  as  if  praise 
Were  for  the  hero's  scorn.     His  step  was  firm, 
But  free  as  India's  leopard;   and  his  mail, 
Whose  shekels  none  in  Israel  might  bear, 
Was  lighter  than  a  tassel  on  his  frame. 
His  crest  was  Judah's  kingliest,  and  the  look 
Of  his  dark,  lofty  eye  and  terrible  brow, 
Might  quell  the  lion.      He  led  on ;    but  thoughts 
Seemed  gathering  round  which  troubled  him.     The  veins 
Upon  his  forehead  were  distinctly  seen  ; 
And  his  proud  lip  was  painfully  compressed. 
He  trod  less  firmly ;    and  his  restless  eye 
Glanced  forward  frequently,  as  if  some  ill 
He  dared  not  meet,  were  there.      His  home  was  near ; 


SKETCHES.  2< 

And  men  were  thronging,  with  that  strange  delight 

They  have  in  human  passions,  to  observe 

The  struggle  of  his  feelings  with  his  pride. 

He  gazed  intensely  forward.      The  tall  firs 

Before  his  tent  were  motionless.      The  leaves 

Of  the  spiced  aloe,  and  the  clustering  vines 

Which  half  concealed  his  threshold,  met  his  eye 

Unchanged  and  beautiful;    and  one  by  one, 

The  balsam  with  its  sweet-distilling  stems, 

And  the  Circassian  rose,  and  all  the  crowd 

Of  silent  and  familiar  things,  stole  up 

Like  the  recovered  passages  of  dreams. 

He  strode  on  rapidly.      A  moment  more, 

And  he  had  reached  his  home;   when  lo!   there  sprang 

One  with  a  bounding  footstep,  and  a  brow 

Like  light,  to  meet  him.      Oh !    how  beautiful ! 

Her  dark  eye  flashing  like  a  sun-lit  gem, 

And  her  luxuriant  hair — 'twas  like  the  sweep 

Of  a  swift  wing  in  visions !     He  stood  still, 

As  if  the  sight  had  withered  him.      She  threw 

Her  arms  about  his  neck;    he  heeded  not. 

She  called  him  'Father,'  but  he  answered  not. 

She  stood  and  gazed  upon  him.      Was  he  wroth? 

There  was  no  anger  in  that  bloodshot  eye. 


30  SKETCHES. 

Had  sickness  seized  him?      She  unclasped  his  helm, 

And  laid  her  white  hand  gently  on  his  brow, 

And  the  large  veins  felt  stiff  and  hard  like  cords. 

The  touch  aroused  him.      He  raised  up  his  hands 

And  spoke  the  name  of  God  in  agony. 

She  knew  that  he  was  stricken,  then,  and  rushed 

Again  into  his  arms,  and  with  a  flood 

Of  tears  she  could  not  bridle,  sobbed  a  prayer 

That  he  would  tell  her  of  his  wretchedness. 

He  told  her,  and  a  momentary  flush 

Shot  o'er  her  countenance;    and  then  the  soul 

Of  Jephthah's  daughter  wakened,  and  she  stood 

Calmly  and  nobly  up,  and  said  '  'T  is  well — 

And  I  will  die ! ' 

The  sun  had  well  nigh  set. 
The  fire  was  on  the  altar,  and  the  priest 
Of  the  High  God  was  there.      A  wasted  man 
Was  stretching  out  his  withered  hands  to  heaven, 
As  if  he  would  have  prayed,  but  had  no  words  ; 
And  she  who  was  to  die — the  calmest  one 
In  Israel  at  that  hour — stood  up  alone 
And  waited  for  the  sun  to  set.      Her  face 
Was  pale,  but  very  beautiful;    her  lip 


SKETCHES.  31 


Had  a  more  delicate  outline,  and  the  tint 
Was  deeper;   but  her  countenance  was  like 
The  majesty  of  angels ! — The  sun  set, 
And  she  was  dead,  but  not  by  violence. 


32  SKETCHES. 


IDLENESS. 

IT  was  a  leisure  day,  and  I  had  shut 
My  door  upon  intrusion,  and  set  down 
With  a  true  book  to  read.      My  study  fire 
Made  music  to  my  ear  ;    the  placid  brow 
Of  my  Madonna,  and  the  shadowy  tints 
Of  an  old  Flemish  picture  that  I  keep, 
Might  pass  for  company;    and  for  relief 
To  weary  eyes,  a  sweet  geranium  stood 
In  the  half  shuttered  window,  breathing  out 
Its  odors  with  the  pleasant  smell  of  books  ; 
And  a  soft  landscape,  given  me  by  one 
Who  has  a  noble  nature,  hung  in  light, 
Serving  me  as  a  ground  for  poetry. 

I  read  a  tale  of  Seville.     It  was  when 
Darkness  was  over  Spain,  and  Christian  hearts 
Were  standing  out  for  truth,  undauntedly. 
The  daily  light  brought  martyrdom,  and  men 


SKETCHES.  33 

Of  a  pure  life  went  faithfully  to  die, 
For  the  rich  hope  hereafter.      There  was  set 
A  scaffold  on  the  '  golden  Gaudalquivir ; ' 
And  in  the  greenest  valley  of  the  land, 
With  its  bright  shore  and  water  tempting  them 
Like  an  affection,  did  they  meekly  die. 
Nobles  as  just  men  perished,  where  their  sires 
Held  the  chivalric  tournament;  and  one 
Whose  ancestors  had  been  Castilia's  kings, 
Died  calmly.     He  had  loved  to  come  alone 
And  watch  that  stealing  river,  and  't  is  told 
That  when  the  axe  fell  frequently,  he  went 
Ever  at  evening  there,  that  he  might  look 
Upon  its  bloody  evidence,  and  nerve 
His  spirit  to  the  trial. 

'T  is  a  tale 

Of  high  and  manly  fortitude,  and  one 
To  elevate  the  nobler  nature.      I 
Have  told  it  to  defend  my  idle  time, 
And  prove  that  a  companionship  with  books 
Betters  the  spirit,  and  that  gliding  back 
Upon  these  by-past  histories  reveals 
Perfect  example,  and  may  teach  sometimes, 
How  noble  and  how  beautiful  appears 
The  finer  temper  of  humanity. 
5 


34  SKETCHES. 


DREAMS. 


'  I  know  it  is  dark  ;  and  though  I  have  lain 
Awake,  as  I  guess,  an  hour  or  twain, 
I  have  not  once  opened  the  lids  of  my  eyes, 
But  I  lie  in  the  dark,  as  a  blind  man  lies.' 

COLERIDGE. 


AND  what  is  it  to  dream  ?      It  is  to  have 

A  spiritual  being.      'T  is  to  loose 

Th'  unsleeping  mind  from  matter,  and  believe 

Miraculous  and  godlike  gifts  our  own. 

It  is  to  touch  all  nature  with  the  wand 

Of  faery,  and  be  true  and  beautiful 

Amid  a  truer  and  more  beautiful  world. 

It  is  to  need  no  contrast  that  the  light 

About  us  may  be  visible,  and  joy 

Mistaken  not  for  sorrow.      'T  is  to  love 

Dark  eyes,  and  tones  like  a  secondo  flute, 

And  then  be  irresistible;  and  living 

In  a  sweet  granite  home,  to  find  your  love 

The  angel  that  she  seemed  in  poetry. 


SKETCHES. 

And  what  is  it  to  dream?     It  is  to  know 
The  talisman  of  motion,  and  soar  on 
To  the  high  places  of  the  upper  air, 
Like  a  superior  spirit.      'Tis  to  glide 
Out  upon  chainless  wanderings,  unchecked 
By  time,  or  distance,  or  the  circumstance 
Of  waking  reason.      'Tis  to  weave  long  years 
Of  a  still,  midnight  hour,  or  crowd  a  life 
Into  a  glowing  moment ;  and  amid 
The  measure  and  the  harmony  that  float 
About  us  like  an  element,  to  find 
Ithuriel's  whisper — but  a  breakfast  bell ! 

There  's  purity  in  dreams.      The  passions  lie, 
With  the  dull  qualities  of  earth,  asleep ; 
And  the  low  interests  of  life  are  changed 
For  the  etherial  vision.      We  erase 
Dark  feelings  with  fantastic  incident; 
And  feel  cool  fingers  laid  upon  the  brow 
Where  the  hot  flush  is  burning.      We  retrace 
All  early  time  in  dreams ;    and  hear  the  low, 
Deep  cadences  of  prayer,  and  press  the  hand 
That  led  us  to  our  happy  slumbers  then. 
We  look  on  riper  seasons  with  the  eye 
That  painted  them  all  sunshine,  and  forget 


36  SKETCHES. 

That  we  have  found  them  shadows;    and  we  trust 

Life's  broken  reed  as  lightly,  and  repeat 

Our  first  young  vow  as  movingly,  again. 

Such  dreams  refresh  the  feelings,  like  a  pure 

And  high  communion;    for  the  spirit  wears 

No  fetter  of  a  poor,  particular  world, 

And  waits  no  cold  and  selfish  reasoning, 

To  measure  out  its  fervor  ;    but  goes  back 

Upon  the  purer  memories,  and  lives  o'er 

The  brighter  past,  alone ;    and  when  the  heart 

Hath  buried  an  affection,  it  unclothes 

Its  image  from  the  drapery  of  the  grave, 

And  wins  it  to  its  olden  tenderness. 

I  've  read  of  one  in  story,  who  had  laid 
His  young  love  in  the  grave.      The  seasons  came 
And  went,  like  shadows  over  him,  for  years; 
And  then  the  world  grew  brighter,  and  he  heard 
A  melody  in  nature's  goings  on; 
And  a  sweet  cousin's  voice,  that  tempted  him 
Into  the  sunshine  and  the  air,  became 
The  music  of  his  happiness,  and  so 
He  married  her.      One  night  she  was  awake, 
And  gazing  on  his  features  as  the  moon 
Shone  through  the  casement  on  them.      A  large  tear 


SKETCHES.  37 

Stole  from  his  eye,  and  as  his  lips  were  stirred 
With  the  low  murmur  of  his  dream,  she  caught 
The  name  of  the  departed.      He  awoke, 
And  she  reproached  him  tearfully  for  love 
Kept  secret  in  his  heart;    and  then  he  kissed 
Her  tears  away,  and  told  her  that  his  love 
Was  faithfully  her  own,  although  in  dreams 
An  angel  came  to  him  sometimes,  and  woke 
A  buried  thought  of  one  as  beautiful. 


38  SKETCHES. 


OCTOBER. 


-To  the  influxes 


Of  shapes  and  sounds  and  shifting  elements 
Surrendering  the  whole  spirit.' 

COLERIDGE. 


SUMMER  has  pleasant  seasons,  and  the  spring 
Comes  gaily  on  the  senses ;   and  't  is  sweet 
To  know  the  places  of  the  shadiest  trees, 
And  hunt  the  scented  violet;   but  when  these 
Have  mellowed  into  autumn,  and  the  flowers 
Sleep  in  their  fragrant  places,  'tis  to  me 
A  pleasanter  and  purer  time  to  give 
Close  thought  to  its  forgetfulness,  and  stray 
By  the  serenest  wave  and  greenest  grass. 

October  had  come  in  and  I  went  forth 
To  breathe  an  air  like  June,  and  feel  the  nerve 
Of  the  elastic  temper  which  a  frost 
Gives  to  the  sunshine.      The  transparent  veil 
Of  morning's  exhalations  had  rolled  up 


SKETCHES. 

Into  white,  silvery  streakings,  and  the  sky 

Looked  perfectly  and  deeply  blue  between, 

Like  a  fixed  element,  and  birds  went  up 

And  sang  invisibly,  the  heavenly  air 

Wooed  them  above  the  earth  so  temptingly. 

I  never  knew  the  streams  so  musical, 

Or  saw  them  half  so  clear;  and  for  the  leaves — 

The  maples  were  just  turned,  and  brighter  trees 

Were  never  by  the  forest  pencil  drawn. 

The  hill-sides  seemed  to  slumber,  the  warm  sun 

Shone  on  their  slopes  so  softly;    and  I  knew 

One  that  was  carpeted  with  moss,  and  leant 

To  the  warm  south  so  fitly,  you  would  look 

To  find  Endymion  sleeping.      'Twas  indeed 

A  pleasant  place,  and  when  I  came  to  it 

And  told  her,  (did  I  say  I  was  alone?) 

That  it  was  faery  all,  and  only  made 

For  her  own  lovely  rest,  she  laughingly 

Proclaimed  herself  a  queen,  and  with  the  leaves 

Bound  her  transparent  temples  for  a  crown, 

And  bade  me  kneel,  and  she  would  grant  my  boon 

To  half  her  fairy  kingdom. 

Could  I  paint 
Her  picture  then !    paint  her  voluptuous  lip, 


40  SKETCHES. 

With  its  sweet  curl  of  pride ;  the  shaded  eye 
In  its  dark  liquid  lustre ;    the  fair  brow 
With  its  light  wandering  veins,  and  raven  braid 
Contrasting  with  its  whiteness ;    the  faint  blush 
Upon  her  cheek,  of  maiden  modesty, 
And  the  rich  outline,  melting  into  grace, 
Of  her  unmatched  proportions;   over  all, 
Could  I  but  make  the  picture  eloquent 
With  the  deep,  reedy  music  of  her  tone, 
Or  lend  to  you  the  golden  leaf  which  bears 
The  sketch  within  my  memory,  you  would  know 
How  fairer  than  the  summer,  or  the  spring, 
Should  the  October  season  seem  to  me. 


SKETCHES.  41 


OF 

UNIVERSITY 


*  I  was  a  boy ;  and  she  was  fair 

As  you  are  when  you  smile, 
And  her  voice  came  forth  like  the  summer  air, 

With  a  tone  that  did  beguile, 
And  her  two  blue  eyes  refreshing  were 
As  two  trees  on  an  Indian  isle.' 

ETONIAN. 


I  LOVE  fresh  feelings — it  is  so  unlike 

This  olden  world  to  meet  them;    and  they  come 

Upon  my  heart  like  music  so,  or  like 

Some  passage  that  is  new  in  poetry. 

I  walked  one  eve  by  moonlight.     I  had  seen 
Some  fourteen  summers,  and  my  cyphering 
Was  all  the  thought  I  had ;  and  as  the  world 
Had  come  to  me  so  pleasantly,  I  took 
A  wayward  temper  for  my  manual, 
6 


42  SKETCHES. 

And  kept  it  to  the  letter/     It  was  now 

A  mellow  eve  of  summer,  and  a  girl, 

Who  laughed  forever  like  the  birds  and  had 

Long  eyelashes  and  very  dangerous  eyes, 

Was  leaning  on  my  arm.     I  did  not  know 

1  was  in  love;    but  it  seemed  natural 

To  think  of  all  she  said,  and  she  'd  a  way 

Of  coming  to  one's  dreams ;    and  then  her  name 

Was  always  in  the  lesson  like  a  word, 

And  half  the  time  I  studied  it.      This  eve 

We  had  been  very  gay,  and  I  had  watched 

The  deep,  half  shaded  dimple  in  her  cheek, 

Till  I  forgot  to  answer  ;    and  as  she 

Of  too  much  mirth  grew  serious,  I  began 

To  act  the  lover  playfully.      My  cap 

Was  carelessly  thrown  back,  and  on  my  cheek 

I  shook  some  dew  for  tears,  and  as  she  curled 

Her  lip  in  mimic  scorn,  I  knelt  to  her, 

And  begged  for  her  sweet  favor,  touchingly. 

She  answered  coldly  first,  and  then  relented, 

As  wiser  maids  have  done ;    but  with  a  look 

Of  something  so  like  earnest,  that  I  did 

Her  hand  some  violence;   and  then  she  blushed 

And  said  I  must  not  tell,  but  ladies'  lips, 

By  some,  were  counted  prettier. 


SKETCHES.  43 

The  moon 

Shone  just  as  soberly,  and  I  went  home 
And  kept  the  secret;    but  I  do  not  know 
That  she  would  let  me  touch  the  seal  again. 


44  SKETCHES. 


NIGHT  SKETCHES. 


< Therefore  let  the  moon 

Shine  on  thee  in  thy  solitary  walk ; 

And  let  the  misty  mountain  winds  be  free 

To  blow  against  thee  :  and,  in  after  years, 

When  these  wild  ecstacies  shall  be  matured 

Into  a  sober  pleasure,  when  thy  mind 

Shall  be  a  mansion  for  all  lovely  forms, 

Thy  memory  be  as  a  dwelling-place 

For  all  sweet  sounds  and  harmonies ;  oh  !  then, 

If  solitude,  or  fear,  or  pain,  or  grief, 

Should  be  thy  portion,  with  what  healing  thoughts 

Of  tender  joy  wilt  thou  remember .' 


WORDSWORTH. 


I. 

I  HAVE  been  gay  tonight.      The  perfect  moon 
Is  sitting  up  in  heaven,  and  living  stars 
Are  looking  sweetly  from  the  firmament; 
All  elements  that  live,  and  common  things 
In  earth  and  sea  tonight  are  beautiful; 
And  there  is  stillness,  fitting  for  pure  thought, 


SKETCHES.  45 

And  light  for  waking  dreams,  and  holiness 
Like  a  plain  language  written  on  the  front 
Of  this  exceeding  temple — and  yet  I 
Have  been  among  the  dancers,  and  have  trod 
The  measures  of  a  merry  instrument. 

I  knew  it  as  I  went;    for  I  was  met 
By  a  pure  reach  of  moonlight  that  came  down 
Between  the  city  walls,  and  I  went  back 
A  moment  to  regard  its  silver  brow, 
And  list  its  gentle  lesson;  but  a  sound 
Of  music  and  of  thrilling  voices  came 
From  the  half  opened  window,  and  the  laugh 
Of  a  remembered  girl  bewilderingly 
Came  over  me,  and  I  forgot  the  moon 
As  if  I  never  knew  it  was  in  heaven. 

'Tis  strange — for  I  am  very  happy  now 
While  leaning  in  her  light,  and  I  could  glide 
Most  sweetly  to  the  sleep  of  pleasant  dreams 
Beneath  her  stilly  influence — but  I  know 
That  if  a  voice  I  think  of  were  to  come 
And  call  me  now,  my  own  ungentle  name 
( Her  melting  lip ! )    would  seem  more  beautiful. 


46  SKETCHES. 

II. 

How  secret  are  the  goings  on  of  night ! 
The  moonlight  is  not  heard;    and  as  the  leaves 
Are  touched  by  slumber,  they  bow  gently  down 
Without  a  rustle,  and  the  stealthy  dew 
Comes  on  them  like  the  spirit  of  a  dream. 
The  daily  heat  departs;   the  unquiet  pulse 
Of  nature  grows  serener,  and  the  wave 
Of  motion  in  all  growing  things  is  still, 
While  coolness  circulates  unheard,  and  rest 
Steals  like  a  feeling  on  the  animal  world. 

So  still  art  thou,  O  night!    and  yet  thy  voice 
Hath  many  tones  to  listen,  and  it  tells 
To  my  unquiet  wakefulness,  how  deep 

The  wisdom  that  has  fashioned  thee  so  well 

A  beautiful  and  fitting  time  of  rest. 

III. 

MIDNIGHT    ON    THE    ST    LAWRENCE. 

Give  me  my  cloak !      It  is  no  night  for  sleep, 
And  I  will  wear  a  vigil  with  the  stars 
Until  the  break  of  morning.     What  a  scene ! 


SKETCHES.  47 

The  orient  is  all  molten  with  the  light 
Of  a  perfected  moon,  and  in  the  west 
The  deep  blue  tints  look  cool,  and  every  star 
Is  drawn  distinctly  on  the  sheet  of  heaven. 
The  winds  are  wholly  still,  and  as  we  pass, 
Breaking  the  shadows  of  the  many  trees 
That  sleep  upon  the  margin,  or  go  in 
Among  the  graceful  windings  of  the  stream, 
We  seem  like  wizards,  turning  into  waves 
The  very  sky — it  sleeps  so  perfectly. 
The  vesper  bells  are  hushed,  but  I  can  see 
The  glitter  of  the  steeples  on  the  hills 
That  swell  up  from  the  shore,  and  heavenly 
As  is  the  face  of  nature,  they  come  in 
Among  her  features  like  a  pleasant  smile, 
The  thought  of  worship  is  so  beautiful. 

Swiftly,  yet  gently  on!      How  human  things 
Are  sometimes  like  a  witching  vision,  fair ! 
And  how  the  cunning  of  diviner  skill 
Can  mingle  up  the  elements,  to  make 
A  fallen  world  like  heaven!      I  am  made 
Subject  to  ills,  and  erringly  at  best 
May  use  my  faculties;    but  I  am  here 
With  God's  best  work  about  me,  and  a  mind 


48  SKETCHES. 

Humbly,  but  purely  to  the  harmonies 

Of  nature  tuned,  the  only  looker  on 

In  all  this  lovely  paradise  of  light. 

Blessed  we  sometimes  are !    and  I  am  now 

Happy  in  quiet  feelings ;    for  the  tones 

Of  a  most  pleasant  company  of  friends 

Were  in  my  ear  but  now,  and  gentle  thoughts 

From  spirits  whose  high  character  I  know, 

Were  spoken  at  the  rising  of  the  moon, 

And  I  retain  their  influence,  as  the  air 

Retains  the  softness  of  departed  day. 

And  so  I  should  be  happy;    and  while  joy 

Is  with  me,  I  will  bless  my  company 

Of  sleeping  friends,  and  if  their  eyes  should  rest 

Upon  this  page  hereafter,  they  will  know 

That  in  the  history  of  my  lonely  hours 

Some  gentler  passages  were  writ  by  them. 


SKETCHES.  49 


TWILIGHT. 


' When  the  fretful  stir 

Unprofitable,  and  the  fever  of  the  world 
Have  hung  upon  the  beatings  of  my  heart.* 

WORDSWORTH. 


O  TWILIGHT  hour !   who  art  so  very  cool 

And  balmy  in  the  summer  eventide, 

With  thy  rich  breathing  quieting  the  winds, 

And  the  uneasy  waters;  twilight  hour! 

Whose  mantle  is  the  drapery  of  dreams, 

And  who  hast  ever  been  in  poetry 

Life's  holy  time;   thou  who  wert  wont  to  steal 

Upon  us,  as  thy  sandals  were  of  dew ! 

How  sadly  comes  the  rustle  of  thy  step, 

In  the  decaying  season  of  the  year ! 

My  early  fire  is  low,  and  hurrying  feet 
In  the  short  pauses  of  the  wind  go  by, 
And  the  unquiet  leaves,  that  sighingly 
Obey  its  gusty  summons  and  sweep  on, 

Seem  mourning  for  the  green  and  pleasant  trees; 

7 


50  SKETCHES. 

And  the  clouds  wear  sad  colors,  and  I  feel 

As  there  were  nothing  in  this  fading  world, 

That  is  not  cold  and  sorrowful  like  this. 

Thus  is  it  with  a  spirit  not  at  ease. 

It  turns  no  eye  within;  but,  as  it  were 

The  mirror  of  the  world's  poor  circumstance, 

It  takes  its  hue  from  nature,  as  if  earth 

With  its  discordant  elements  could  tune 

The  delicate  harmonies  of  human  mind. 

We  have  within  us  fountains,  and  they  flow 

With  fancy  to  create  the  beautiful, 

And  thought  to  search  out  knowledge,  and  deep  love 

To  link  us  to  society ;   light  mirth 

To  gladden,  and  kind  sympathies  to  shade 

The  spirit;  and  yet  many  will  go  out 

With  a  sealed  bosom  wandering  the  world, 

To  satisfy  a  thirst  for  happiness. 

How  strange  it  is,  that  when  the  principle 

Of  light  is  living  in  us,  we  should  shut 

Its  emanations  in,  and  darkly  stray 

To  catch  a  beam  from  nature,  like  a  star 

That  should  forget  its  glory  and  go  out, 

Because  the  moon  was  shining  not  in  heaven! 


SKETCHES. 


NH   SRtoi 


DAWN. 


That  line  I  learned  not  in  the  old  sad  song.' 

CHARLES  LAMB. 


THROW  up  the  window !      5T  is  a  morn  for  life 
In  its  most  subtle  luxury.      The  air 
Is  like  a  breathing  from  a  rarer  world ; 
And  the  south  wind  seems  liquid — it  o'ersteals 
My  bosom  and  my  brow  so  bathingly. 
It  has  come  over  gardens,  and  the  flowers 
That  kissed  it  are  betrayed ;    for  as  it  parts 
With  its  invisible  fingers  my  loose  hair, 
I  know  it  has  been  trifling  with  the  rose, 
And  stooping  to  the  violet.      There  is  joy 
For  all  God's  creatures  in  it.      The  wet  leaves 
Are  stirring  at  its  touch,  and  birds  are  singing 
As  if  to  breathe  were  music,  and  the  grass 
Sends  up  its  modest  odor  with  the  dew, 
Like  the  small  tribute  of  humility. 
Lovely  indeed  is  morning !      I  have  drank 


52  SKETCHES. 

Its  fragrance  and  its  freshness,  and  have  felt 
Its  delicate  touch,  and  't  is  a  kindlier  thing 
Than  music,  or  a  feast,  or  medicine. 

I  had  awoke  from  an  unpleasant  dream, 
And  light  was  welcome  to  me.      I  looked  out 
To  feel  the  common  air,  and  when  the  breath 
Of  the  delicious  morning  met  my  brow, 
Cooling  its  fever,  and  the  pleasant  sun 
Shone  on  familiar  objects,  it  was  like 
The  feeling  of  the  captive  who  comes  forth 
From  darkness  to  the  cheerful  light  of  day. 
Oh !  could  we  wake  from  sorrow !      Were  it  all 
A  troubled  dream  like  this,  to  cast  aside 
Like  an  untimely  garment  with  the  morn ! 
Could  the  long  fever  of  the  heart  be  cooled 
By  a  sweet  breath  from  nature,  or  the  gloom 
Of  a  bereaved  affection  pass  away 
With  looking  on  the  lively  tint  of  flowers — 
How  lightly  were  the  spirit  reconciled 
To  make  this  beautiful,  bright  world  its  home ! 


SKETCHES.  53 


SCRAPS  FROM  A  JOURNAL. 

I. 

MY  heart  is  like  a  sleeping  lake 

Which  takes  the  hue  of  cloud  and  sky, 

And  only  feels  its  surface  break 
When  birds  of  passage  wander  by, 

Who  dip  their  wings  and  upward  soar, 

And  leave  it  quiet  as  before. 

Thus  change  comes  on  me.      If  the  light 

Of  the  gay  sun  is  drank  by  clouds, 
And  dulness  sleeps  upon  the  bright, 

Clear  garniture  whose  greenness  shrouds 
The  naked  nature ;    if  the  creep 

Of  lazy  rain-clouds  tells  alone 
ikrth  does  not  on  its  axle  sleep, 

And  winds  go  over  with  a  moan 
Like  birds  wing-broken;   if  the  sea 

Looks  like  an  agitated  pall, 
And  sullied  foam  heaves  mournfully, 


54  SKETCHES. 

And  pitches  from  the  dull  green  wall 
Of  waters ;   if  the  wild  fowl  rise 

From  the  cold  ocean  with  a  plash, 
And  heavily  wheel  up  the  skies, 

As  if  they  would  forget  the  dash 
Of  billows,  and  could  pass  away 

From  earthly  sorrows  as  from  earth: 
If  not  one  shorn,  but  sunny  ray, 

Leaps  out  like  a  stray  thought  of  mirth  ; 
If  heaven  looks  sad,  and  seas  look  dull, 

And  nature's  beauty  is  a  blank — 
I  feel  as  if  my  heart  were  full 

Of  waters  from  oblivion  drank; 
For  I  forget,  like  flowers,  the  hue 
Of  beauty,  without  sun  and  dew. 

But  a  bright  morning — when  the  lark 

Is  painted  on  the  light  blue  sky, 
And  vapors  rest  upon  the  dark, 

Deep  pools  of  ebony  that  lie 
In  the  hill  shadows;    when  the  leaves 

Are  stirring  with  the  scented  air, 
And  the  bright  drops  that  evening  weaves 

Like  diamonds  in  the  wavy  hair 
Of  nature,  glisten ;  when  the  wing 


SKETCHES.  55 


Of  the  light  wind  is  but  a  shrine 
On  which  the  lowliest  flower  may  fling 

Its  gift  of  odors ;  when  the  vine 
Hath  lifted  its  coarse  leaf  to  show 

Its  azure  clusters  to  the  sun, 
And  quickened  by  his  amorous  glow, 

The  curling  shoots  stir  one  by  one; 
When  every  fibre,  blade,  and  stem 

That  lifteth  to  the  arch  of  blue, 
Is  jewelled  with  its  droplet  gem, 

And  every  bathed  and  dainty  hue 
Hath  a  clear  April  freshness;    when 

The  birds  go  caroling  like  streams 
O'er  pebbly  courses,  and  the  glen 

Reechoes  patiently  the  themes 
A  thousand  summers  and  their  birds 
Have  given  in  those  very  words; 

When  every  nerve  is  nobly  strung, 
And  leaping  pulses  swiftly  pass, 

And  care  is  from  the  spirit  flung 
Like  rain-drops  from  the  swaying  grass- 

I  feel  as  if  my  spirit  took 
From  nature  a  new  gift  of  sight, 

And  I  could  read  her  living  book 
By  perfect  and  immediate  light, 


56  SKETCHES. 

And  knew,  as  angels  know,  how  broad 
Is  the  benevolence  of  God. 


II. 

IT  is  a  glorious  morning.     Storm 

Hath  left  no  traces,  and  the  warm, 

Rich  sunshine  cometh  like  a  strain 

Of  parted  music,  back  again. 

The  trees  are  bare,  but  like  a  true 

And  changeless  friend,  the  sun  shines  through, 

And  round  the  sad  and  fallen  leaves 

His  mesh  of  light  he  softly  weaves. 

I  see  and  feel  how  very  fair 

This  summer  sun,  and  breezes  are; 

I  see  the  white,  thin  vapors  wreathed 

About  the  hills  as  if  they  breathed ; 

I  see  the  sky's  pure,  delicate  blue, 

Like  a  soft  eye  which  melts  me  through, 

And  I  've  remembered  the  sweet  eyes 

I  likened  to  those  gentle  skies, 

And  gazed  this  hour  as  if  their  look 

Were  written  in  that  azure  book, 

And  the  long  echo  came  but  now 

Of  my  hot  speech  and  silly  vow. 

I  cannot  wander;    but  I  know 


SKETCHES.  57 

How  earth's  deep  voices  softly  flow; 

I  know  how  light  the  waters  run 

O'er  the  sere  grass  and  fretful  stone; 

I  know  how  fountains  leap,  how  still 

The  winds  creep  over  lake  and  hill; 

The  Autumn  birds,  the  last  leaf-fall, 

The  morn's  sweet  breath — I  know  them  all. 

I  know  them  all — and  yet  my  feet 
Are  not  where  singing  waters  meet; 
My  books  are  for  the  running  streams, 
And  stupid  schoolmen  for  the  dreams 
Of  gentle  spirits ;    I  am  tied 
While  nature  joyeth  like  a  bride; 
Chained  down  to  reason  on  the  cool, 
Dull  precepts  of  a  skeptic's  rule, 
While  beauty  over  earth  and  sea 
Is  gushing  as  a  fount  let  free. 

It  hath   its  lesson.      Beautiful  things 
Are  given  like  retreating  wings; 
Not  to  be  gathered,  never  won, 
But  sent  to  lead  the  spirit  on; 
Winning  the  upward  eye  of  prayer, 
As  'twere  a  finger  pointing  there, 
8 


58  SKETCHES. 

Till  we  have  followed  to  the  sky 
An  angel,  imperceptibly. 


III. 

IT  is  a  holy  night.      The  moon 
Hath  made  it  like  a  gentler  noon, 
And  every  deep  and  starry  eye 
Is  waking  in  the  summer  sky, 
As  if  its  light  were  made  alone 
For  restless  hearts  to  gaze  upon. 
There  are  no  voices,  and  the  stir 
Of  the  soft  south  goes  lightlier 
Among  the  branches,  and  the  deep, 
Felt  stillness  of  a  world  asleep, 
Is  on  my  spirit  like  the  touch 
Of  a  sweet  friend  who  loveth  much. 
I  've  left  my  books.      I  cannot  damp 
My  heart  beside  a  weary  lamp 
While  heaven  is  set  with  stars,  and  I 
Am  not  to  sit  down  quietly, 
And  on  a  musty  altar  fling 
The  birthright  of  a  glorious  wing. 
Reason  who  will ;   while  skies  of  June 
Are  molten  by  this  silent  moon, 


SKETCHES.  59 

While  flowers  have  breath,  and  voices  creep 

From  running  brook  and  fountain-leap, 

While  any  thing  is  left  to  love 

In  this  fair  earth  and  heaven  above, 

I  would  not  wear  a  fettered  limb 

To  make  Chaldea's  wisdom  dim. 

Why,  what  is  duty?      Sky  and  sea, 
Thou  promised  heaven !    are  types  of  thee ; 
The  earth  is  like  a  flowing  cup 
Of  perfect  beauty  mingled  up  ; 
The  very  elements  of  heaven, 
Life,  light,  and  music,  freely  given; 
The  world  an  Eden,  and  we  thirst 
For  every  voice  and  fountain-burst; 
And  yet,  we  're  told,  at  duty's  call 
We  must  forego — forget  them  all! 

How  has  the  foot  of  nature  trod 
The  pathway  of  a  perfect  God, 
How  are  the  springs  of  earnest  thought 
With  his  diviner  cunning  wrought, 
If  all  that  makes  us  feel  our  fate 
Not  altogether  desolate — 
This  burning  love  for  beautiful  things, 


GO  SKETCHES. 

Is  sealed  among  forbidden  springs, 
And  we  must  throw  a  gift  of  fire 
Aside  like  a  neglected  lyre? 


SKETCHES.  61 


BETTER  MOMENTS. 

MY  mother's  voice!   how  often  creeps 
Its  cadence  on  my  lonely  hours, 

Like  healing  sent  on  wings  of  sleep, 
Or  dew  to  the  unconscious  flowers! 

I  can  forget  her  melting  prayer 
While  leaping  pulses  madly  fly; 

But  in  the  still  unbroken  air, 

Her  gentle  tone  comes  stealing  by, 

And  years,  and  sin,  and  manhood  flee, 

And  leave  me  at  my  mother's  knee. 

The  book  of  nature,  and  the  print 
Of  beauty  on  the  whispering  sea, 

Give  aye  to  me  some  lineament 
Of  what  I  have  been  taught  to  be. 

My  heart  is  harder,  and  perhaps 
My  manliness  hath  drunk  up  tears, 

And  there  's  a  mildew  in  the  lapse 


SKETCHES. 

Of  a  few  miserable  years — 
But  nature's  book  is  even  yet 
With  all  my  mother's  lessons  writ. 

I  have  been  out  at  eventide 

Beneath  a  moonlight  sky  of  spring, 
When  earth  was  garnished  like  a  bride, 

And  night  had  on  her  silver  wing; 
When  bursting  leaves  and  diamond  grass, 

And  waters  leaping  to  the  light, 
And  all  that  makes  the  pulses  pass 

With  wilder  fleetness,  thronged  the  night- 
When  all  was  beauty — then  have  I, 

With  friends  on  whom  my  love  is  flung 
Like  myrrh  on  winds  of  Araby, 

Gazed  up  where  evening's  lamp  is  hung, 
And  when  the  beautiful  spirit  there 

Flung  over  me  its  golden  chain, 
My  mother's  voice  came  on  the  air 

Like  the  light  dropping  of  the  rain, 
And  resting  on  some  silver  star 

The  spirit  of  a  bended  knee, 
I  've  poured  her  low  and  fervent  prayer 

That  our  eternity  might  be 


SKETCHES. 

To  rise  in  heaven  like  stars  at  night, 
And  tread  a  living  path  of  light ! 

I  have  been  on  the  dewy  hills 

When  night  was  stealing  from  the  dawn, 
And  mist  was  on  the  waking  rills, 

And  tints  were  delicately  drawn 
In  the  gray  east;   when  birds  were  waking 

With  a  low  murmur  in  the  trees, 
And  melody  by  fits  was  breaking 

Upon  the  whisper  of  the  breeze — 
And  this  when  I  was  forth,  perchance, 
As  a  worn  reveller  from  the  dance ! 

And  when  the  sun  sprang  gloriously 
And  freely  up,  and  hill  and  river 

Were  catching  upon  wave  and  tree 
The  arrows  from  his  subtle  quiver — 

I  say  a  voice  has  thrilled  me  then, 
Heard  on  the  still  and  rushing  light, 

Or  creeping  from  the  silent  glen, 
Like  words  from  the  departing  night — 

Hath  stricken  me,  and  I  have  pressed 
On  the  wet  grass  my  fevered  brow, 

And  pouring  forth  the  earliest, 
First  prayer  with  which  I  learned  to  bow, 


64  SKETCHES. 

Have  felt  my  mother's  spirit  rush 
Upon  me  as  in  by-past  years, 

And  yielding  to  the  blessed  gush 
Of  my  ungovernable  tears, 

Have  risen  up — the  gay,  the  wild- 

As  humble  as  a  very  child ! 


SKETCHES.  65 


THE  HINDOO  MOTHER. 

IT  was  a  gentle  eve  in  Hindoostan. 

The  rains  were  past,  and  the  delighted  earth 

Was  beautiful  once  more,  and  glittering  leaves 

Were  lifting  lightly  on  their  beaten  stems, 

And  glancing  to  the  pure,  transparent  sky, 

Like  a  pleased  infant  smiling  through  its  tears. 

Clouds  lingered  in  the  west,  and  tints  were  drawn 

By  sunset  fingers  on  their  skirts  of  gold, 

And  they  were  floating  as  serenely  there, 

As  if  the  children  of  the  restless  storm 

Could  sleep  upon  the  azure  floor  of  heaven. 

Deep  ran  the  holy  Ganges,  for  the  rain 
Had  swollen  it  fronoir  Thibet  to  the  sea. 
Its  flow  was  turbid ;    and,  as  if  the  winds 
Were  not  forgotten  by  the  multitude 
Of  its  strange  waters,  they  were  leaping  up, 
And  with  a  wonderous  glory  gathering 
The  mantle  of  the  sunset  over  them. 
9 


SKETCHES. 

How  frequently  these  living  passages 

Of  nature's  book  are  opened,  and  how  few 

Are  the  high  hearts  that  know  them,  and  can  feel 

Their  eloquence  and  beauty  ! 

Meina  stood 

Upon  the  breathing  carpet  of  the  shore, 
Gazing  on  sky  and  river.     There  was  much 
In  the  dark  features  of  the  young  Hindoo, 
That  should  have  won  a  gentler  history. 
She  had  the  Eastern  eye,  with  its  dark  fringe 
And  shadowy  depth  of  lustre ;   but,  beyond 
The  elements  of  beauty,  there  was  writ 
A  something  that  the  wounded  roe  would  trust 
For  shelter  from  its  hunters.     Her  closed  lips 
Were  delicate  as  the  tinted  pencilling 
Of  veins  upon  a  flower ;    and  on  her  cheek 
The  timid  blood  had  faintly  melted  through, 
Like  something  that  was  half  afraid  of  light. 
There  was  no  slighter  print  upon  the  grass 
Than  her  elastic  step;    and  in  her  frame 
There  was  a  perfect  symmetry,  that  seemed 
Aerial  as  a  bird's.     It  was  the  hour 
For  worship  in  her  land;   and  she  had  come, 
With  the  religion  of  a  high,  pure  heart, 


SKETCHES.  67 

To  bow  herself  in  prayer.     A  darker  mind 

Might  pray  at  such  an  hour;   but  she  had  caught 

The  spirit  of  the  scene ;   and,  as  her  eye 

Followed  the  coursing  of  the  golden  waves, 

Or  rested  on  the  clouds  that  slept  above, 

Like  isles  upon  the  bosom  of  the  sea, 

Her  soul  was  swept  to  music  like  a  harp, 

And  she  knelt  down  in  her  deep  blessedness 

To  worship  the  High  Maker.     As  she  prayed, 

Her  beautiful  young  boy — a  very  dream, 

As  he  might  be,  of  infant  loveliness, 

With  his  dark  hair  upon  the  summer  wind, 

And  the  sweet  laugh  of  a  delighted  child 

Like  music  on  his  lips — came  leaping  by, 

And,  flinging  a  light  wreath  upon  her  brow, 

Sprang  onward  like  a  bounding  antelope. 

She  turned  a  moment — might  she  not,  for  him? 

Him,  whom  she  cradled  in  the  whispering  tree, 

And  gathered  to  her  bosom  in  the  hush 

Of  the  still  night  ? — to  know  if  he  was  there. 

'T  was  but  a  moment,  and  she  bowed  again ; 

And,  as  the  murmur  of  her  silver  tone 

Stole  out  upon  the  wind,  her  images 

Of  majesty  came  back,  and  she  was  filled, 

Like  a  deep  channel  by  the  whirlwind  swept, 


SKETCHES. 

Again  with  the  rich  rushing  of  her  prayer. 
The  shadows  of  the  stealthy  evening  came 
Silently  on;    but  she  was  up,  in  thought, 
Among  the  crystal  palaces  of  light; 
>And  a  still  prompting  came  to  her,  to  pray 
That  the  poor  spirit  of  a  passing  world, 
With  all  its  fond,  but  frail  idolatries, 
Might  on  the  altar  of  her  God  be  flung. 
She  breathed  it,  and  along  the  holy  shore 
She  heard  the  whisper  of  the  waters  creep : 
'  Thine  is  the  victory,  Meina ! ' — Was  it  won  ? 
Won  in  its  cold,  bereaving  cruelty? 
Won  from  the  pride  of  woman?   from  her  love? 
Won  from  thy  boy  !    young  mother  ?      No !   oh,  no ! 
She  had  forgotten  him !     He  was  too  young, 
Too  purely,  beautifully  young,  to  die ! 
And  then  the  waves  repeated  to  the  shore, 
And  the  light  echo  heard  it :   f  Give  him  up ! ' 
And  Meina  heard  it:    'Give  him  to  thy  God!1 
And  the  strong  heart  arose!      One  arrowy  pulse 
Of  an  acuter  agony  than  death; 
One  fearful  shiver  at  the  searching  thrill, 
And  she  had  won — aye,  with  her  glorious  boy 
Upon  her  very  breast — the  victory  ! 


SKETCHES. 

Oh!   let  the  erring  oftener  be  forgiven, 

That,  in  the  shadowy  twilight  of  the  mind, 

They  stray  a  little  from  the  perfect  way! 

If  there  is  evidence  in  silent  leaves, 

And  the  still  waters,  of  a  present  God,  » 

And  all  who  hear  not  messages  of  grace, 

Must  gather  from  its  dim  and  hidden  words 

Their  better  solaces;   remember  ye 

Who  reckon  lightly  of  the  poor  Hindoo, 

That,  in  the  scattering  of  the  leaves  of  life, 

His  page  was  written  more  imperfectly. 

The  beautiful  sun  arose,  and  there  was  not 
A  stain  upon  the  sky;   the  virgin  blue 
Was  delicate  as  light;    and,  as  the  east 
Eclipsed  night's  pale  and  starry  jewelry, 
The  pure  intensity  of  noon  stole  on, 
Like  the  soft  deepening  of  a  northern  eye. 

'Come!  my  own  glorious  boy!'   and  forth  he  sprang, 
As  he  had  been  created  of  the  morn 
A  spirit  and  an  element  of  light. 
'  Come !    Come ! '    and  he  was  bounding  airily 
Beside  his  stately  mother,  laughing  out 
His  lisping  prattle  of  the  promised  boat. 


70  SKETCHES. 

As  if  her  words  had  been  in  playfulness, 

'  That  the  bright  waves  should  float  him  on  to  heaven.' 

The  morning  mist  stole  up,  as  Meina  knelt 

To  offer  him  to  God.      Her  eyes  were  dim; 

But  her  fine  forehead,  and  her  calm,  still  lip, 

Were  fearfully  subdued;    and  as  the  cloud 

Which  clothes  the  lightning  slumbers,  so  they  slept. 

Her  soul  was  in  its  strength.      She  held  her  boy 

Upon  her  bosom,  till  she  felt  the  throb 

Of  his  warm  pulses  numbered  on  her  heart, 

And  her  low,  leaden  cadences,  kept  on ! 

His  silken  hair,  as  delicately  soft 

As  the  light  wind  that  stirred  it,  floated  up, 

As  if  to  plead  at  her  transparent  cheek ; 

But  she  had  wooed  its  kisses  till  it  came 

To  be  a  fond  idolatry,  and  now 

She  nerved  her  as  the  strong  heart  answered  it. 

And  the  low  words  broke  severally  on, 

Distinctly  as  a  common  orison  ! 

There  is  a  period  in  the  wreck  of  hopes 

By  the  affections  garnered,  calmer  far 

Than  an  untried  serenity.      It  comes 

With  the  stern  conflict  ever,  and  awaits 

The  passage  of  that  hour,  as  if  the  soul 

Were  girded,  and  had  championed  suffering; 


SKETCHES.  71 

And  it  is  strange,  how  a  weak  human  heart 
Will  thus  be  quiet  like  a  hushing  storm, 
And,  with  a  fetter  on  its  pulses,  wait 
To  measure  spirits  for  the  mastery ! 

The  low  'Amen!'  died  on  the  silent  air, 
And  Meina's  heart  was  ready.      The  young  boy 
Sprang  joyously  away,  as  if  her  arms 
Had  prisoned  him  too  long;    and,  as  he  saw 
The  painted  boat  heave  lightly  to  the  swell 
Upon  the  reedy  shore,  and  caught  the  breath 
Of  her  wreathed  helm  of  flowers,  he  gave  a  shout, 
In  his  impatient  gladness,  and  away, 
Like  a  warm  vision  of  aerial  birth, 
He  bounded  to  implore  that  she  would  come. 
Calmly  and  steadily  came  Meina  on, 
Led  by  her  victim  boy.      The  boat  was  there 
Among  the  tall  wet  reeds,  and  she  went    in 
And  scanned  its  light  frame  over,  arid  arranged 
Its  mimic  ornaments;   and  then  again, 
When  she  had  seen  it  all,  and  he  had  grown 
Impatient,  she  began  to  note  once  more 
The  frailties  in  its  lightly  plaited  reeds, 
As  if  she  did  not  know  that  it  was  meant 
To  kill.      It  is  a  wonderful  effect 


72  SKETCHES. 

Of  nature  in  the  heart,  that  in  the  strength 
Of  a  mistaken  duty,  it  will  turn, 
And  almost  trifle  with  its  tenderness, 
As  if  it  half  misgave  that  all  was  wrong. 

'  Come ! '    and  he  sprang  into  his  mother's  arms 
With  a  light  leap,  and,  scarcely  faltering 
In  his  gay  laugh,  he  looked  into  her  face, 
And  in  a  tone  of  fondness  whispered  her, 
'Will  the  boat  bear,  dear  mother?'      She  had  quelled 
Her  feelings  until  now;   had  nerved  herself 
To  the  light  grace  with  which  he  bounded  by; 
Had  heard  his  voice,  and  looked  upon  his  hair 
In  its  light,  breezy  floatings,  and  had  shut 
Her  heart  up,  with  an  iron  thought,  to  all. 
But  this  one  doubt,  half  sadness  as  it  came 
From  his  delighted  lips,  and  with  his  look 
Of  childlike  and  appealing  confidence, 
Was  keener  than  a  mother's  heart  could  bear! 
She  bowed  her  head,  and  struggled,  as  if  life 
Were  bursting  from  its  seal;    and,  as  the  thought 
Rushed  over  her  to  take  her  idol  back, 
And  keep  him  for  her  God,  he  murmured  low, 
'And  are  you  sure,  my  mother?' — 'No!   my  son!' 
And  the  strong  tide  of  nature  gathered  back 


SKETCHES.  73 

With  a  resistless  energy.     She  clasped 

Her  boy  convulsively,  and  he  had  lived 

To  quicken,  in  its  gifted  elements, 

The  radiant  spirit  written  on  his  brow, 

But  a  high  strengthening  she  knew  not  of, 

Awakened  her,  and  pressing  down  her  lips 

In  a  long  fervent  kiss  upon  his  cheek, 

She  hushed  him  into  peace,  and  lifting  up 

Her  face  to  heaven,  she  breathed  the  name  of  God, 

And  laid  him  down — for  ever ! 

The  light  bark 

Went  smoothly  with  the  tide,  and  floated  on 
Till  his  dark  eye  was  scarcely  visible. 
On,  and  yet  on,  she  bounded!      The  bright  waves 
Seemed  playful  in  their  leaping  joyousness, 
And  the  curled  ripple  feathered  at  the  prow 
Like  a  glad  thing  of  life.      Had  death  grown  slow  ? 
Or  were  the  waters  '  stayed,'  that  they  should  keep 
Their  cold  embraces  from  him?      On,  still  on, 
With  her  quick  undulations!      Hope  revived 
In  the  sick  heart  of  Meina,  and  she  rose 
To  gaze  more  keenly  forward.     He  was  there, 
And  his  small  arms  were  lifted ;  and  she  thought 
That,  as  he  tossed  them  upward,  she  could  hear 
10 


74  SKETCHES. 

A  cadence  of  his  sweet  and  silvery  voice 

Like  a  delighted  shouting.      It  died  off, 

And  then  again  she  heard  it.      Was  it  joy 

That  broke  upon  her  ear  ?   oh !    was  there  joy 

In  that  long  cry,  thou  mother?      Hark  to  it! 

'T  is  like  the  arrowy  piercing  of  the  wind ! 

He  moveth,  and  she  bade  him  to  be  still! 

He  riseth!    'tis  his  boyish  restlessness! 

Look,  Meina!     Does  he  dash  his  little  hands, 

In  mirth,  upon  the  waters?     Hark!   once  more! 

'Mother!'    He  calls  thee !    Is  thy  child  afraid? 

Again  !    How  very  fearfully  it  comes ! 

'  Help !    Mother  ! '      'T  is  a  cry  of  agony  ! 

He  sinks  !      Fly !    Fly  !   he  calls  to  thee  !     Oh  fly ! 

'Mother!'     God  help  thee!      Dost  thou  see  him  now? 


SKETCHES.  75 


WAITING  FOR  THE  HARVESTERS. 

AND  there  she  sat  in  ripened  loveliness, 

An  English  mother;  joying  in  her  babes, 

Whose  life  was  bright  before  her,  and  whose  lips 

Were  breaking  into  language,  with  the  sweet 

And  loving  sentences  they  learn  so  soon. 

Her  face  was  very  beautiful,  and  mirth 

Was  native  on  her  lip;   but  ever  now 

As  a  sweet  tone  delighted  her,  the  smile 

Went  melting  into  sadness,  and  the  lash 

Drooped  gently  to  her  eye,  as  if  it  knew 

Affection  was  too  chaste  a  thing  for  mirth. 

It  was  the  time  for  harvest,  and  she  sat 

Awaiting  one.      A  breath  of  scented  hay 

Was  in  the  air,  and  from  the  distance  came 

The  noise  of  sickles,  and  the  voices  sent 

Out  on  the  stillness  of  the  quiet  morn ; 

And  the  low  waters,  coming  like  the  strain 

Of  a  pervading  melody,  stole  in, 

And  made  all  music!      5T  was  a  holiness 


76  SKETCHES. 

Of  nature's  making,  and  I  lifted  up 

My  heart  to  Heaven,  and  in  my  gladness  prayed 

That  if  a  heart  were  sad,  or  if  a  tear 

Were  living  upon  earth,  it  might  be  theirs 

To  go  abroad  in  nature,  and  to  see 

A  mother  and  her  gentle  babes  like  these. 


FUGITIVE   PIECES. 


79 


THE  SOLDIER'S  WIDOW. 

Wo !   for  my  vine-clad  home ! 
That  it  should  ever  be  so  dark  to  me, 
With  its  bright  threshold,  and  its  whispering  tree! 

That  I  should  ever  come, 
Fearing  the  lonely  echo  of  a  tread, 
Beneath  the  roof-tree  of  my  glorious  dead ! 

Lead  on !    my  orphan  boy ! 
Thy  home  is  not  so  desolate  to  thee, 
And  the  low  shiver  in  the  linden  tree 

May  bring  to  thee  a  joy; 

But,  oh !    how  dark  is  the  bright  home  before  thee, 
To  her  who  with  a  joyous  spirit  bore  thee ! 

Lead  on!   for  thou  art  now 
My  sole  remaining  helper.      God  hath  spoken, 
And  the  strong  heart  I  leaned  upon  is  broken  ; 

And  I  have  seen  his  brow, 
The  forehead  of  my  upright  one,  and  just, 
Trod  by  the  hoof  of  battle  to  the  dust. 


80  THE  SOLDIER'S   WIDOW. 

He  will  not  meet  thee  there 
Who  blest  thee  at  the  eventide,  my  son! 
And  when  the  shadows  of  the  night  steal  on, 

He  will  not  call  to  prayer. 
The  lips  that  melted,  giving  thee  to  God, 
Are  in  the  icy  keeping  of  the  sod ! 

Aye,  my  own  boy !    thy  sire 
Is  with  the  sleepers  of  the  valley  cast, 
And  the  proud  glory  of  my  life  hath  past, 

With  his  high  glance  of  fire. 
Wo!    that  the  linden  and  the  vine  should  bloom, 
And  a  just  man  be  gathered  to  the  tomb! 

Why,  bear  them  proudly,  boy  ! 
It  is  the  sword  he  girded  to  his  thigh, 
It  is  the  helm  he  wore  in  victory! 

And  shall  we  have  no  joy? 
For  thy  green  vales,  O  Switzerland,  he  died! 
I  will  forget  my  sorrow — in  my  pride! 


81 


THE  BURIAL  OF  ARNOLD, 

MEMBER    OF    THE    SENIOR    CLASS    OF    YALE    COLLEGE. 

YE  VE  gathered  to  your  place  of  prayer 

With  slow  and  measured  tread ; 
Your  ranks  are  full,  your  mates  all  there; 

But  the  soul  of  one  has  fled. 
He  was  the  proudest  in  his  strength, 

The  manliest  of  ye  all ; 
Why  lies  he  at  that  fearful  length, 

And  ye  around  his  pall? 

Ye  reckon  it  in  days  since  he 

Strode  up  that  foot- worn  aisle, 
With  his  dark  eye  flashing  vividly, 

And  his  lip  wreathed  with  a  smile. 
Oh!    had  it  been  but  told  you  then 

To  mark  whose  lamp  was  dim, 
From  out  yon  rank  of  fresh-lipped  men, 

Would  ye  have  singled  him? 
11 


82  THE   BURIAL  OF  ARNOLD. 

Whose  was  the  sinewy  arm  which  flung 

Defiance  to  the  ring? 
Whose  laugh  of  victory  loudest  rung, 

Yet  not  for  glorying? 
Whose  heart,  in  generous  deed  and  thought, 

No  rivalry  might  brook, 
And  yet  distinction  claiming  not? 

There  lies  he ;   go  and  look  ! 

On  now !    his  requiem  is  done ; 

The  last  deep  prayer  is  said. 
On  to  his  burial,  comrades!   on, 

With  the  noblest  of  the  dead ! 
Slow!    for  it  presses  heavily; 

It  is  a  man  ye  bear! 
Slow!    for  our  thoughts  dwell  wearily 

On  the  noble  sleeper  there. 

Tread  lightly,  comrades!    we  have  laid 

His  dark  locks  on  his  brow 
Like  life,  save  deeper  light  and  shade ; 

We  '11  not  disturb  them  now. 
Tread  lightly;    for  'tis  beautiful, 

That  blue-veined  eyelid's  sleep, 
Hiding  the  eye  death  left  so  dull; 

Its  slumber  we  will  keep. 


THE  BURIAL  OF  ARNOLD.  83 

Rest  now!    his  journeying  is  done; 

Your  feet  are  on  his  sod. 
Death's  chain  is  on  your  champion  ; 

Here  waiteth  he  his  God! 
Aye,  turn  and  weep !  't  is  manliness 

To  be  heart-broken  here; 
For  the  grave  of  earth's  best  nobleness 

Is  watered  by  the  tear. 


84 


TO   LAURA   W- 


TWO    YEARS    OF    AGE. 

BRIGHT  be  the  skies  that  cover  thee, 

Child  of  the  sunny  brow ! 
Bright  as  the  dream  flung  over  thee, 

By  all  that  meets  thee  now. 
Thy  heart  is  beating  joyously, 

Thy  voice  is  like  a  bird's, 
And  sweetly  breaks  the  melody 

Of  thy  imperfect  words. 
I  know  no  fount  that  gushes  out, 
As  gladly  as  thy  tiny  shout. 

Thy  coral  lip  is  pencilled  well, 

Thy  cheek  is  deeply  dyed; 
Thine  eye  might  shame  the  fleet  gazelle, 

In  all  his  desert,  pride; 
Thy  fairy  foot's  uncertain  step, 

Thy  light  bewitching  grace, 


TO   LAURA  W .  85 

The  smile  that  curls  thy  sleeping  lip, 

And  lights  thy  radiant  face; 
Have  made  a  gift  of  beauty  up 
Too  fair  to  taste  life's  tainted  cup. 

I  would  that  thou  mightst  ever  be 

As  beautiful  as  now; 
That  time  might  ever  leave  us  free 

Thy  yet  unwritten  brow! 
I  would  life  were    all  poetry 

To  gentle  measures  set, 
That  nought  but  chastened  melody, 

Might  dim  thine  eye  of  jet, 
Nor  one  discordant  note  be  spoken, 
Till  God  the  cunning  harp  hath  broken. 

I  would — but  deeper  things  than  these 

With  woman's  lot  are  wove ; 
Wrought  of  intenser  sympathies, 

And  nerved  by  purer  love. 
By  the  strong  spirit's  discipline, 

By  the  fierce  wrong  forgiven, 
By  all  that  wrings  the  heart  of  sin, 

Is  woman  won  to  heaven. 


TO   LAURA   W . 

'Her  lot  is  on  thee,'  lovely  child! 
God  keep  thy  spirit  undefiled! 

I  fear  thy  gentle  loveliness, 

Thy  witching  tone  and  air, 
Thine  eye's  beseeching  earnestness, 

May  be  to  thee  a  snare. 
For  silver  stars  may  purely  shine, 

The  waters  taintless  flow; 
But  they  who  kneel  at  woman's  shrine, 

Breathe  on  it  as  they  bow. 
Ye  may  fling  back  the  gift  again, 
But  the  crushed  flower  will  leave  a  stain. 

What  shall  preserve  thee,  beautiful  child! 

Keep  thee,  as  thou  art  now? 
Bring  thee,  a  spirit  undefiled, 

At  God's  pure  throne  to  bow? 
The  world  is  but  a  broken  reed, 

And  life  grows  early  dim — 
Who  shall  be  near  thee  in  thy  need, 

To  lead  thee  up,  to  Him? 
He  who  himself  was  '  undefiled ' — 
With  Him  we  trust  thee,  beautiful  child! 


87 


SONNET. 

TO    A    PICTURE    OF    '  GENEVIEVE,'    BY    ALEXANDER. 

THINE  is  a  face  to  look  upon  and  pray 

That  a  pure  spirit  keep  thee.      I  would  meet 
With  one  so  gentle  by  the  streams  away, 

Living  with  nature;   keeping  thy  pure  feet 
For  the  unfingered  moss,  and  for  the  grass 
Which  leaneth  where  the  gentle  waters  pass. 

The  autumn  leaves  should  sigh  thee  to  thy  sleep, 
And  the  capricious  April,  coming  on, 

Awake  thee  like  a  flower,  and  stars  should  keep 
A  vigil  o'er  thee  like  Endymion; 

And  thou  for  very  gentleness  shouldst  weep, 
As  dew  of  the  night's  quietness  comes  down. 

I  've  praised  thee,  Genevieve !      A  dream  of  mine 

Hath  just  such  dark  and  shaded  eyes  as  thine. 


88 


SONNET. 

I  HAVE  been  gazing  on  thee,  Genevieve, 

And  musing,  in  my  love,  if  thou  must  die ; 
And  I  have  thought  it  were  not  well  to  grieve 

At  thy  most  delicate  frame  and  lustrous  eye; 
For  as  a  harp  is  broken,  when  the  finger 

That  knew  its  cunning  hath  forgot  to  play, 
Thou  wouldst  not,  for  that  frail  confinement,  linger, 

When  it  was  time  for  thee  to  pass  away ; 
And  therefore  am  I  glad,  that  when  my  heart 

To  thy  enquiring  tenderness  is  hushed, 
And  thine  endearments  from  mine  eyes  depart, 

JT  will  be  enough  for  thee  that  life  hath  gushed, 
Gently  to  loose  the  silver  cord,  and  die, 
And  with  me  in  my  place  of  slumber  lie. 


89 


SONNET. 

I  CARE  not  that  the  world,  when  I  am  dead, 

Remember  me;    I  care  not  that  they  come 
To  see  the  place  where  I  shall  lay  my  head, 

Or  praise  me  with  low  voices  at  my  tomb; 
I  would  not  even  a  recording  stone 
Should  tell  them  what  I  was — when  I  am  gone. 

There  are  a  few  who  love  me — whom  I  love — 
Gentle  and  gifted  spirits,  who  would  weep, 

But  not  that  I  had  found  a  rest  above, 
And  in  their  hearts  my  trifling  virtues  keep ; 

And  one,  whom  I  have  folded  like  a  dove 
In  my  affections,  would  lie  down  and  sleep 

Softly  beside  me — and  I  should  not  care, 

That  any  one  should  know  that  I  was  there. 


90 


EXTRACT   FROM   A   POEM 


DELIVERED    AT    THE    DEPARTURE    OF    THE    SENIOR    CLASS    OF 


YALE    COLLEGE,    IN    1826. 


WE  shall  go  forth  together.      There  will  come 

Alike  the  day  of  trial  unto  all, 

And  the  rude  world  will  buffet  us  alike. 

Temptation  hath  a  music  for  all  ears; 

And  mad  ambition  trumpeteth  to  all ; 

And  the  ungovernable  thought  within, 

Will  be  in  every  bosom  eloquent; 

But  when  the  silence  and  the  calm  come  on, 

And  the  high  seal  of  character  is  set, 

We  shall  not  all  be  similar.      The  scale 

Of  being  is  a  graduated  thing; 

And  deeper  than  the  vanities  of  power, 

Or  the  vain  pomp  of  glory,  there  is  writ 

Gradation,  in  its  hidden  characters. 

The  pathway  to  the  grave  may  be  the  same, 


EXTRACT  FROM  A  POEM.  91 

And  the  proud  man  shall  tread  it,  and  the  low, 

With  his  bowed  head,  shall  bear  him  company. 

Decay  will  make  no  difference,  and  death 

With  his  cold  hand  shall  make  no  difference  ; 

And  there  will  be  no  precedence  of  power, 

In  waking  at  the  coming  trump  of  God  ; 

But  in  the  temper  of  the  invisible  mind, 

The  godlike  and  undying  intellect, 

There  are  distinctions  that  will  live  in  heaven, 

When  time  is  a  forgotten  circumstance ! 

The  elevated  brow  of  kings  will  lose 

The  impress  of  regalia,  and  the  slave 

Will  wear  his  immortality  as  free, 

Beside  the  chrystal  waters;    but  the  depth 

Of  glory  in  the  attributes  of  God, 

Will  measure  the  capacities  of  mind ; 

And  as  the  angels  differ,  will  the  ken 

Of  gifted  spirits  glorify  him  more. 

It  is  life's  mystery.      The  soul  of  man 

Createth  its  own  destiny  of  power ; 

And  as  the  trial  is  intenser  here, 

His  being  hath  a  nobler  strength  in  heaven. 

What  is  its  earthly  victory  ?      Press  on ! 
For  it  hath  tempted  angels.      Yet  press  on! 


EXTRACT  FROM  A  POEM. 

For  it  shall  make  you  mighty  among  men ; 

And  from  the  eyrie  of  your  eagle  thought, 

Ye  shall  look  down  on  monarchs.      Oh !    press  on ! 

For  the  high  ones  and  powerful  shall  come 

To  do  you  reverence ;    and  the  beautiful 

Will  know  the  purer  language  of  your  brow, 

And  read  it  like  a  talisman  of  love ! 

Press  on !    for  it  is  godlike  to  unloose 

The  spirit,  and  forget  yourself  in  thought ; 

Bending  a  pinion  for  the  deeper  sky, 

And  in  the  very  fetters  of  your  flesh, 

Mating  with  the  pure  essences  of  heaven ! 

Press  on ! — '  for  in  the  grave  there  is  no  work, 

And  no  device.' — Press  on !    while  yet  ye  may  ! 

So  lives  the  soul  of  man.      It  is  the  thirst 
Of  his  immortal  nature ;    and  he  rends 
The  rock  for  secret  fountains,  and  pursues 
The  path  of  the  illimitable  wind 
For  mysteries — and  this  is  human  pride  ! 
There  is  a  gentler  element,  and  man 
May  breathe  it  with  a  calm,  unruffled  soul, 
And  drink  its  living  waters  till  his  heart 
Is  pure — and  this  is  human  happiness  ! 
Its  secret  and  its  evidence  are  writ 


EXTRACT  FROM  A  POEM. 

In  the  broad  book  of  nature.      'T  is  to  have 

Attentive  and  believing  faculties; 

To  go  abroad  rejoicing  in  the  joy 

Of  beautiful  and  well  created  things; 

To  love  the  voice  of  waters,  and  the  sheen 

Of  silver  fountains  leaping  to  the  sea; 

To  thrill  with  the  rich  melody  of  birds, 

Living  their  life  of  music ;    to  be  glad 

In  the  gay  sunshine,  reverent  in  the  storm; 

To  see  a  beauty  in  the  stirring  leaf, 

And  find  calm  thoughts  beneath  the  whispering  tree  ; 

To  see,  and  hear,  and  breathe  the  evidence 

Of  God's  deep  wisdom  in  the  natural  world ! 

It  is  to  linger  on  'the  magic  face 

Of  human  beauty,'  and  from  light  and  shade 

Alike  to  draw  a  lesson ;    't  is  to  love 

The  cadences  of  voices  that  are  tuned 

By  majesty  and  purity  of  thought ; 

To  gaze  on  woman's  beauty,  as  a  star 

Whose  purity  and  distance  make  it  fair; 

And  in  the  gush  of  music  to  be  still, 

And  feel  that  it  has  purified  the  heart ! 

It  is  to  love  all  virtue  for  itself, 

All  nature  for  its  breathing  evidence ; 


94  EXTRACT  FROM  A  POEM. 

And  when  the  eye  hath  seen,  and  when  the  ear 
Hath  drunk  the  beautiful  harmony  of  the  world, 
It  is  to  humble  the  imperfect  mind, 
And  lean  the  broken  spirit  upon  God  ! 

Thus  would  I,  at  this  parting  hour,  be  true 
To  the  great  moral  of  a  passing  world. 
Thus  would  I — like  a  just  departing  child, 
Who  lingers  on  the  threshold  of  his  home — 
Remember  the  best  lesson  of  the  lips 
Whose  accents  shall  be  with  us  now,  no  more  ! 
It  is  the  gift  of  sorrow  to  be  pure ; 
And  I  would  press  the  lesson;    that  when  life 
Hath  half  become  a  weariness,  and  hope 
Thirsts  for  serener  waters,  Go  abroad 
Upon  the  paths  of  nature,  and  when  all 
Its  voices  whisper,  and  its  silent  things 
Are  breathing  the  deep  beauty  of  the  world, 
Kneel  at  its  simple  altar,  and  the  God 
Who  hath  the  living  waters,  shall  be  there  ! 


NOTES. 


PAGE  32,  LINES  12  and  13. 

'  And  a  soft  landscape  given  me  by  one 
Who  has  a  noble  nature.1 

THE  gentleman  who  gave  me  the  picture  of  Stirling  Castle'  will 
not  be  surprised  that  so  pleasant  a  gift  holds  a  place  in  my  memory. 

PAGE  33,  LINES  9  and  10. 

'one 
Whose  ancestors  had  been  Castilia's  kings.1 

This  striking  anecdote  is  related  of  Ponce  de  Leon,  in,  I  think, 
*  A  Visit  to  Spain,'  by  Michael  Quin. 


PAGE  47,  LINE  12. 

'  The  glitter  of  the  steeples  on  the  hills: 

Every  one  who  has  made  the  passage  of  the  St  Lawrence,  will 
remember  the  beautiful  effect  of  the  steeples  on  the  shore.  Occupy 
ing  almost  every  swell  on  the  low  interval,  and  tiled  universally  with 
tin,  they  glisten  in  the  moonlight  like  turrets  of  silver.  It  is  even  in 
that  majestic  scenery  an  impressive  and  delightful  feature. 


96  NOTES. 

PAGE  84,  LINE  4. 

'  Child  of  the  sunny  brow.1 

Perhaps  my  book  will  be  forgotten  before  the  child,  to  whom  these 
lines  are  addressed,  is  old  enough  to  understand  them ;  but  even  if  it 
is  not,  there  is  little  harm  in  saying  that  she  is  at  this  time  the  most 
beautiful  human  being  I  ever  saw.  Her  'thousand  winning  ways' 
and  graceful  motion  are  before  me  now  like  a  sweet  dream,  and  I 
shall  never  forget  them.  May  God  bless  her ! 


PAGE  87,  LINE  14. 

'./2s  dew  of  the  nighfs  quietness  comes  doivnS 

If  my  readers  have  neglected  meteorology  as  long  as  I  did,  the 
younger  part  of  them  at  least,  would  like  to  be  told  that  the  dew  nev 
er  falls  except  on  a  still  night. 


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